


drawing cathedrals

by isopsephic (kyrilu)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/isopsephic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you must know, churches have this...smell to them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	drawing cathedrals

**Author's Note:**

> This is a partial fill for a [prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=626389#cmt626389) I left on the kink meme (I know, that's the second time I've done that; I have a hard time leaving my ideas alone). Also, I didn’t realize until I was nearly finished with this fic that it’s basically a nod to Raymond Carver’s short story Cathedral--which the title is referencing.
> 
> There's implied Matt/Foggy/Karen in this as well.

They’ve been out drinking, just finished a case, and they’re sprawled on the floor of Matt’s place. It’s as if they’re back in college again: Foggy and Matt, collapsed and loose-limbed on the ground, now chugging back the last of the beer from Matt’s fridge.

“Matt?”

“Yeah, Foggy?”

“I always thought it was a running joke about your Catholic superpower when it comes to finding churches. Like, remember that time when we helped out my aunt in Jersey for legal advice? You disappeared when we finished, and I freaked out trying to find you. And then you happened to turn up at the nearest church - specifically Catholic, of course - just chatting to the priest there.”

“Oh,” Matt says. “Yeah. You chewed me out on that one, if I remember.”

Foggy remembers yelling factoring in, actually. Matt had apologized to him, then mumbled something about putting his phone on silent inside the church, and Foggy had told him: _hey, you dick, I was just worried; I know you’ve never been outside of New York_ , and pulled him into an awkward, one-armed hug.

Foggy snorts, now. “What was that even? Your radioactive super-senses at work or something? Because you also know every Catholic church in New York that isn’t in the Kitchen or anywhere not even near it. From borough to borough.”

“That’s,” Matt says with a laugh, “--that’s an exaggeration.”

“No, man,” Foggy says, nudging him on the shoulder. “You’re drawn to Catholic churches like a magnet, and don’t even get them confused with Lutheran ones or Baptist ones or whatever. Whenever we’re walking, I see you turn your head and look momentarily respectful. I’m, like, 90% sure you don’t look any of it up on your laptop or anywhere else beforehand, because you’ve been doing it for years and it looks like a habit. How the hell do you know? I’m pretty sure you said: _I see a world on fire_ , not _I see a world full of specific places of worship of a specific denomination_.”

“Okay,” Matt says. He takes a swig of his beer. “If you must know, churches have this...smell to them.”

Foggy is skeptical. Quickly, he takes out his phone, types ‘what do churches smell like.’ Triumphantly, he says, “Ooh, I’ve got this, Murdock. This guy on Yahoo Questions says ‘older churches smell like old money, they are covered by thousands of human skins cells and oils, which give off a lived in, dangerous smell.’ Wait, does he mean that money is covered in human skin cells and oils, or is the church covered in human skin?”

“Noooo,” Matt says, elongating the word while he grins. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if churches were covered in human skin cells, Foggy.”

“Good. Because that sounds disgusting.” Foggy pauses for a second. “Huh. I think your church radar would definitely come in handy on the legal side of things. Because if Daredevil ever needs to exercise his right of asylum and doesn’t want to get persecuted for being a vigilante, he could go seek a church for protection.”

Thoughtfully, Matt says, “That’s shaky on legal grounds these days. It’s been used for immigrants, refugees, but I’m not sure if Daredevil should qualify. Father Lantom probably wouldn’t mind keeping the doors open for me, though.”

“We should look that up. Just in case, y’know.”

“Maybe later,” Matt agrees. He hums his agreement onto the side of Foggy’s face, his breath on Foggy’s cheek and his ear.

“Back on track,” Foggy reminds him, recalling the subject at hand. “What do churches smell like?”

Matt is silent, for awhile, and inhales, exhales, as if he’s inside of a church right now. “They smell like--like the same one place I’ve ever known my entire life, ever since I’ve been baptized even though I don’t remember that. Like holy water, and flowers, and incense, and candles. Like old wood, and hymnal books, and stained glass--stained glass does have a smell, I think, something sharp and clear and warm from sunlight. I don’t think I’d ever claim to be able to know the scent of God, but it’s the closest I know of when it comes to Him. Or something like that, anyway.”

“...That’s deep.”

“Mm. I guess.”

“Sometimes you make me wish I was religious. But I’m a lazy bastard. Don’t think you could ever drag me to church on early Sunday mornings.”

“I don’t think faith in a higher being or a scripture or a creed is necessary for everyone, Foggy. You just need faith. In other people, in the things you do, in the future. They’re our coping mechanisms.”

“Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never seen you this coherent when you’re drunk. You’ve been thinking too much, haven’t you?”

“Well,” Matt says. “Recent events have put me in a doomsday-oriented, foreboding frame of mind. Karen told me that the world fell apart.”

“She’s been off lately,” Foggy says, quietly. “I’m not seeing things, right? She’s acting weird.”

“No. You’re not. She keeps on telling me she’s fine. I asked her again tonight, when I tried to invite her to go drinking with us.”

“How does she smell like?”

“What?”

“Karen.”

Matt sighs. He knocks his waist against Foggy, settling against him, and says, “Usually nice. Sometimes there’s a perfume that she wears on her wrists--peaches. She smells like our office a lot: paper and dust, familiar. There’s the coffee that she makes, which is strong and bitter, but it’s also mixed in with the herbal edge of tea. And when she’s on her way to our office, there’s a roof or overhang or a bridge that she passes that drips water into her hair, droplets from the morning’s condensation. It makes her smell like rain.”

Foggy smiles at that, at the description, and he thinks that he gets how Matt sees Karen, through this other lense. It’s a new way to think of her: not just blonde hair, blue eyed, with a bright smile, but focused and sharpened through senses.

“Hey,” he says, “what do I smell like?”

“Like alcohol,” Matt says.

“Besides that.”

Matt inhales and exhales again, but it’s only for a brief moment, as if he already knows. “Foggy,” he says, “you smell like me.”

Foggy wrinkles his nose. “I’m fairly certain I don’t smell like Catholic churches and blood from vigilante fights.”

“No,” Matt says. “it’s the same baseline scent. It’s always been the same for years, kind of blurring together for both of us, almost indistinguishable. Too much time spent together. But it was--it was stronger when we were roommates. I liked that, you know. Still do.” He gives Foggy a playful, light-hearted smile, but Foggy freezes, sees what’s underneath it.

Foggy says, “Wait. Hang on.”

“Foggy--”

“This explains all of the times that you rubbed up against me like a cat while we were drunk in college, Matthew Murdock. And the times when you kept on borrowing my sweater, because you ‘forgot’ to wash yours. And--and a lot of weird super-senses poking of boundaries that I’ve never really noticed. I mean, you’re doing that rubbing cat thing now! --no, no, you don’t have to stop.”

Matt has the grace to look embarrassed, his cheeks flushed but his body still putting gentle pressure against Foggy’s side. Because, Foggy thinks, it does feel nice. Even if he can be roughly compared to a tree or a bush territorially marked by an animal.

Foggy feels his hand dip down to close around Matt’s wrist. He looks up, up at the dark ceiling above them, at the pink light from the billboard outside, and lets out a breath like Matt did earlier.

Matt says, “I know you’re still upset with me for not telling you."

"Yeah. But I think this is a bit different."

Silence.

"So what do we smell like together?"

"It's not as hard as you think it is," Matt murmurs. "It's just traces. Impressions. Try it yourself."

The first thing that Foggy thinks is: _What_ , a flat note of confusion.

But then he understands. It's not about an undetectable scent, but a distinction that doesn't exactly exist. He shifts, sets his palm on Matt's palm, a halved prayer of clasped hands, and he breathes out.

 _Like holy water, and flowers, and incense, and candles. Like old wood, and hymnal books, and stained glass_ , Matt had said of his churches.

Foggy feels Matt’s pulse on his. He closes his eyes, and the world is on fire, aglow and chaotic, but there’s something small between them: a blessing. A spark. He tightens his grip on Matt’s hand, holds him there--there--there, and when he opens his mouth to give the moment a prayer, a litany, a benediction, he realizes that he doesn’t know any at all.

Instead, he says Matt’s name. Matt smiles, soft and small, and it’s enough.


End file.
